In Which It Is All Go

Today I have:

checked proofs for the new Phantoms anthology, before breakfast yet;

seen dentist to have my crown reattached, where it had departed its tooth;

gone into town for my Pratchett class;

gone on to the Lit & Phil to read & revise my novel;

come home to finish Phantoms proofs, and return same to my co-publisher;

and now I'm going to start firming up my novel revisions here at the keyboard.

Oh, and somewhere in the middle of all that I lost my potent sentimental ear-stud again, only this time I don't expect to get it back; I've been everywhere, and have no idea where or when it went. Sod it. I shall buy myself something lovely to replace it, and let it go. *nods*

Double-digging: or, a word about process

It's a curious process, this redrafting affair. What I'm engaged on now, this one should be easy, as I've only been asked to cut the text, and only where my style is too obtrusive or repetitive, where I'm dwelling too long in the language (personally, I assert that it's not repetition, it's escalation: but editors, what do they know...?). Even so, this will take me longer than I think, much longer than I think it ought.

It works like this: first thing I do, I print out the last draft, because I can't work on screen. I'll tell you that, any time you care to ask.

Usually, I take that draft elsewhere, Out Of The House. Because I don't have anywhere in the house that's suitable, I'll tell you that too, boldly ignoring my large dining-room table. Mostly I take it to the Lit & Phil, or else to the pub (depending on the time of day, largely; I often migrate from the one to the other, just at that point where coffee migrates into beer).

Then I sit with coffee or beer and nibbles, pen in hand and draft on the table; and I read, and mull, and scribble. And it takes longer than you'd think, or at least longer than I think; today, f'rexample, I was in there, oh, an hour and a half? And I read & scribbled on 34 pages. 11,000 words, give or take. At that rate, there's fifteen hours of work to be done just in this stage.

Then I bring it home and put my scribbled pages on the desk, open up the file and start going through them - but I don't only look at the scribbled bits, and I don't simply transcribe my scribbles. It's not like that. As often as not, all the scribbles mean is "make this better!" (if I haven't found a better version staring me in the face as I read it through, if all that struck me was the awfulness of what was). So I read everything again on screen, and I reconsider all my scribbles and also those parts that were unscribbled, and I make changes; and it all takes longer than it did before, and way longer than I hoped. F'rexample, I've done half an hour here, and haven't finished five pages yet.

At that rate, there's another 35 hours of work in this stage. Which means 50 hours altogether, more or less, give or take. For a comparatively simple cut-and-polish, being done entirely on spec. And what waits me after this is a major reworking, on a manuscript twice as long and not half as finished as this is. And they both need to be done before Christmas. And I need to write a new short story, too.

I work too hard, and I don't get paid enough. By distances.

Um, I dunno: does everybody do it this way, or am I unique? Perverse, even...?

This is much too good to waste...

(ganked from chibicharybdis)

In 2007, desperance resolves to...

Pay for my androids on time.
Put fifty dragons a month into my savings account.
Tell my family about musicals.
Spend more time with my new words.
Take evening classes in tequila.
Overcome my secret fear of cats.

Get your own New Year's Resolutions:

Make yourselves comfy, folks, I have to talk about Sondheim now. And somebody keep an eye on those cats for me, wouldja...?

Also, of course, this...

On the twelfth day of Christmas, desperance sent to me...

Twelve musicals drumming

Eleven peppers writing

Ten chillies eating

Nine androids cooking

Eight robots a-reading

Seven books a-walking

Six magpies a-publishing

Five co-o-o-onnie willis

Four tom waits

Three john barnes

Two robert graves

...and a tequila in a poetry.

Get your own Twelve Days: